THE NIGHTINGALE OF BATH
A century and a half ago Bath had reached the zenith of her fame and
allurement, not only as "Queen of the West," but as Empress of all the
haunts of pleasure in England. She drew, as by an irresistible magnet,
rank and beauty and wealth to her shrine. In her famous Assembly Rooms,
statesmen rubbed shoulders with card-sharpers, Marquises with swell
mobsmen, and Countesses with courtesans, all in eager quest of pleasure
or conquest or gain. The Bath season was England's carnival, when cares
and ceremonial alike were thrown to the winds, when the pleasure of the
moment was the only ambition worth pursuing, and when even the prudish
found a fearful joy in playing hide-and-seek with vice.
But although the fairest women in the land flocked to Bath, by common
consent not one of them all was so beautiful and bewitching as Elizabeth
Ann Linley, the girl-nightingale, whose voice entranced the ear daily at
the Assembly Rooms concerts as her loveliness feasted the eye. She was,
as all the world knew, only the daughter of Thomas Linley,
singing-master and organiser of the concerts, a man who had plied
chisel and saw at the carpenter's bench before he found the music that
was in him; but, obscure as was her birth, she reigned supreme by virtue
of a loveliness and a gift of song which none of her sex could rival.
It is thus little wonder that Elizabeth Linley's fame had travelled far
beyond the West Country town in which she was cradled. George III. had
summoned her to sing to him in his London palace, and had been so
overcome by her gifts of beauty and melody that, with tears streaming
down his cheeks, he had stroked her hair and caressed her hands, and
declared to the blushing girl that he had never seen any one so
beautiful or heard a voice so divinely sweet.
Charles Dibdin tried to enshrine her in fitting verse, but abandoned the
effort in despair, vowing that she was indeed of that company described
by Milton:
"Who, as they sang, would take the prisoned soul
And lap it in Elysium."
The Bishop of Meath, in his unepiscopal enthusiasm, declared that she
was "the link between an angel and a woman"; while Dr Charles Burney,
supreme musician and father of the more famous Madame d'Arblay, wrote
more soberly of her:
"The tone of her voice and expression were as enchanting
as her countenance and conversation. With a
mellifluous-toned voice, a perfect shake and intonation,
she was possessed of the double power of delighting an
audience equally in pathetic strains and songs of
brilliant execution, which is allowed to very few
singers."
To her Horace Walpole also paid this curious tribute:
"Miss Linley's beauty is in the superlative degree. The
king admires and ogles her as much as he dares to do in
so holy a place as oratorio."
Such are a few of the tributes, of which contemporary records are full,
paid to the fair "Nightingale of Bath," whom Gainsborough and Reynolds
immortalised in two of their inspired canvases--the latter as
Cecilia--her face almost superhuman in its beauty and the divine rapture
of its expression--seated at a harpsichord and pouring out her soul in
song.
It was inevitable that a girl of such charms and gifts--"superior to all
the handsome things I have heard of her," John Wilkes wrote, "and withal
the most modest, pleasing and delicate flower I have seen"--should have
lovers by the score. Every gallant who came to Bath, sought to woo, if
not to win, her. But Elizabeth Linley was no coquette; nor was she a
foolish girl whose head could be turned by a handsome face or pretty
compliments, or whose eyes could be dazzled by the glitter of wealth and
rank. She was wedded to her music, and no lover, she vowed, should wean
her from her allegiance. It was thus a shock to the world of
pleasure-seekers at Bath to learn that the beauty, who had turned a cold
shoulder to so many high-placed gallants, had promised her hand to an
elderly, unattractive wooer called Long, a man almost old enough to be
her grandfather.
That her heart had not gone with her hand we may be sure. We know that
it was only under the strong compulsion of her father that she had given
her consent; for Mr Long had a purse as elongated as his name, and to
the eyes of the poor singing-master his gold-bags were irresistible. Her
elderly wooer loaded his bride-to-be with costly presents; he showered
jewels on her, bought her a trousseau fit for a Queen; and was on the
eve of marrying her, when--without a word of warning, it was announced
that the wedding, to which all Bath had been excitedly looking forward,
would not take place!
Mr Linley was furious, and threatened the terrors of the law; but the
bridegroom that failed was adamant. It was said that, in cancelling the
engagement, Mr Long was acting a chivalrous part, in response to Miss
Linley's pleading that he would withdraw his suit, since her heart could
never be his, and by withdrawing shield her from her father's anger.
However this may have been, Mr Long steadily declined to go to the
altar, and ultimately appeased the singing-master by settling £3,000 on
his daughter, and allowing her to keep the valuable jewels and other
presents he had given her.
It was at this crisis in the Nightingale's life, when all Bath was
ringing with the fiasco of her engagement, and she herself was overcome
by humiliation, that another and more dangerous lover made his
appearance at Bath--a youth (for such he was) whose life was destined
to be dramatically linked with hers. This newcomer into the arena of
love was none other than Richard Brinsley Sheridan, grandson of Dean
Swift's bosom friend, Dr Thomas Sheridan, one of the two sons of another
Thomas, who, after a roaming and profitless life, had come to Bath to
earn a livelihood by teaching elocution.
This younger Thomas Sheridan seems to have inherited none of the wit and
cleverness of his father, Swift's boon companion. Dr Johnson considered
him "dull, naturally dull. Such an excess of stupidity," he added, "is
not in nature." But, in spite of his dulness, "Sherry"--as he was
commonly called--had been clever enough to coax a pension of £200 a year
out of the Government, and was able to send his two boys to Harrow and
Oxford.
The Sheridan boys had been but a few days in Bath when they both fell
head over heels in love with Elizabeth Linley, with whom their sister
had been equally quick to strike up a friendship. But from the first,
Charles, the elder son, was hopelessly outmatched.
"On our first acquaintance," Miss Linley wrote in later
years, "both professed to love me--but yet I preferred
the youngest, as by far the most agreeable in person,
beloved by every one."
Indeed, from a boy, Richard Sheridan seemed born to win hearts. His
sister has confessed:
"I admired--I almost adored him. He was handsome. His
cheeks had the glow of health; his eyes--the finest in
the world--the brilliancy of genius, and were soft as a
tender and affectionate heart could render them. The same
playful fancy, the same sterling and innoxious wit that
was shown afterwards in his writings, cheered and
delighted the family circle."
Such was Richard Brinsley Sheridan, when, in the year 1769, he first set
eyes on the girl, who, after many dramatic vicissitudes, was to bear his
name and share his glories. From the first sight of her he was
hopelessly in love, although none but his sister knew it. He was little
more than a school-boy, and was content to "bide his time," worshipping
mutely at the shrine of the girl whom some day he meant to make his own.
He gave no sign of jealousy when his elder brother made love to her
before his eyes--only to retire quickly, chilled by a coldness which he
realised he could never thaw; or even when his Oxford chum, Halhed, his
dearest friend and the colleague of his youthful pen, fell a victim to
Elizabeth's charms, and, in his innocence, begged Sheridan to plead his
suit with her. Halhed, too, had to retire from the hopeless suit; and
Richard Sheridan, still silent, save, perhaps, for the eloquence of
tell-tale eyes, held the field alone.
It was at this stage of our story that a grave element of danger entered
Elizabeth Linley's life, with the arrival at Bath of a Major Matthews, a
handsome _roué_, with a large rent-roll from Welsh acres, and a
dangerous reputation won in the lists of love. At sight of the fair
Nightingale in the Assembly Rooms this hero of many conquests was
himself laid low. He was frantically in love, and before many days had
passed vowed that he would shoot himself if his charmer refused to smile
on him. Her coldness only fanned his ardour; and his persecution reached
such a pitch that in her alarm she appealed to young Sheridan for help.
Nothing could have been more fortunate for the young lover than such an
appeal and the necessity for it. It was a tribute to her esteem, and to
his budding manliness, which delighted him. Moreover, it gave him many
opportunities of meeting her, and talking over the situation with her.
At any cost this persecution must end; and the result of the conferences
was that an excellent plan was evolved. Richard was to worm himself into
the confidence of the Major, and, in the character of friend and
well-wisher, was to advise him, as a matter of diplomacy, to cease his
attentions to Miss Linley for a time. Meanwhile arrangements were to be
made for the Nightingale's escape to France, where she proposed to enter
a convent until she was of age--thus finding a refuge from the
persecution to which her beauty constantly subjected her, and also from
the scandal which the Long fiasco had given rise to, and which was still
a great source of unhappiness to her.
The plot was cunningly planned and worked smoothly. The Major was
induced by subtle pleading to leave Miss Linley in peace for a time;
and, to quote Miss Sheridan:
"At length they fixed on an evening when Mr Linley, his
eldest son and Miss Mary Linley were engaged at the
concert (Miss Linley being excused on the plea of
illness) to set out on their journey. Sheridan brought a
sedan-chair to Mr Linley's house in the Crescent, in
which he had Miss Linley conveyed to a post-chaise that
was waiting for them on the London road. A woman was in
the chaise who had been hired to accompany them on this
extraordinary elopement."
For elopement it really was, although ostensibly Sheridan was merely
playing the part of a friendly escort to a distressed lady, whatever
deeper scheme, unknown to her, may have been in his mind. After a brief
stay in London a boat was taken to Dunkirk, and the journey resumed
towards Lille.
It was during this last stage of the journey that Sheridan disclosed his
hand. With consummate, if questionable, cleverness he explained that he
could not, in honour, leave her in a convent except as his wife; that he
had loved her since first he met her more than anything else in life,
and that he could not bear the thought of her fair name being sullied by
the scandal that would surely follow this journey taken in his company.
To such plausible arguments, pleaded by one who confessed that he loved
her, and to whom she was (as she now realised) far from indifferent,
Miss Linley could not remain deaf. And before the coach had travelled
many miles from Calais the runaways found an accommodating priest to
make them one. The would-be nun thus dramatically ended her journey to
the convent at the altar.
"It was not," she wrote to him later, "your person that
gained my affection. No, it was that delicacy, that
tender interest which you seemed to take in my welfare,
that were the motives which induced me to love you."
The honeymoon that followed these strange nuptials was of short
duration; for, a few days later, Mr Linley arrived, in a high state of
anger, to reclaim and carry off his runaway daughter; and Sheridan was
left to follow ignominiously in their wake. When he reached Bath it was
to find his hands full. During his absence the irate Major, quick to
discover his perfidy, had published the following notice in the local
_Chronicle_:--
"Mr Richard S., having attempted, in a letter left behind him for
that purpose, to account for his scandalous method of running away
from this place, by insinuations derogating from my character and
that of a young lady, innocent as far as relates to me or my
knowledge, since which he has neither taken notice of my letters,
nor even informed his own family of the place where he has hid
himself, I cannot longer think he deserves the treatment of a
gentleman, than in this public manner to post him as a Liar and a
treacherous Scoundrel.--THOMAS MATTHEWS."
Such a public insult could, of course, only have one issue. Sheridan
promptly challenged Matthews to a duel, the result of which was that the
Major was compelled to make an apology, as public as his insult. But,
so far was he from penitence, that within a few weeks he demanded a
second meeting--and this proved a much more serious matter for Sheridan.
The rivals met the following morning on Claverton Down; and after a few
furious exchanges both swords were broken, and the opponents were
struggling together on the ground. Matthews, however, being much the
stronger, was able to pin Sheridan down, and with a piece of the broken
sword stabbed him repeatedly in the face. "Beg your life, and I will
spare it," he demanded of the prostrate and defenceless man. "I will
neither beg it, nor receive it from such a villain," was the unflinching
answer.
"Matthews then renewed the attack, and, having picked up
the point of one of the swords, ran it through the side
of the throat and pinned him to the ground with it,
exclaiming, 'I have done for him.' He then left the
field, accompanied by his second, and, getting into a
carriage with four horses which had been waiting for him,
drove off."
Sheridan, unconscious and apparently dying, was driven from the Downs to
a neighbouring inn, "The White Hart," where for a time he hung betwixt
life and death. On hearing of his condition Miss Linley (who at the time
was singing at Cambridge) travelled post-haste to his bedside; and,
tenderly nursed by his wife and his sister, the wounded man slowly
fought his way back to strength.
One would have thought that, after such a tragic experience and
observing the mutual devotion of the young couple, their parents would
have relented and given their approval of the union, however improvident
and inexcusable it might appear to them. But, on both sides, they were
obdurate; and Mr Sheridan carried his opposition to the extent of
extracting from his son a promise that he would not even see his wife.
But love laughs at parents' frowns and usually triumphs in the end. When
Elizabeth Linley went away to London to sing in oratorio, her husband
followed her; and, in the _rôle_ of hackney coachman, had the pleasure
of driving not only his wife but her father, home nightly from the
concert-room, without either of them suspecting his identity. When at
last he revealed himself to his wife, her delight was so great as to
leave no doubt of the sincere love she bore him. Many a secret meeting
followed; a final joint appeal ultimately broke down the obduracy of the
parents; and once again Sheridan led his bride to the altar, to make her
finally and securely his own.
For a time Richard Sheridan and his Nightingale found a haven in a
remote, rose-covered cottage at East Burnham. These were days of
unclouded happiness, when, the "world forgetting and by the world
forgot," they lived only for love, caring nothing of the future. They
were days of simple delights; for their entire income was the interest
of Mr Long's £3000, which proved ample for their needs. Mrs Sheridan,
now at the zenith of her fame, might have won thousands by her
voice--she actually refused offers of nearly £4000 for one short
season--but her husband wished to keep the Nightingale's voice for his
own exclusive delight; and she was only too happy in thus turning her
back on fame and fortune.
But such halcyon days could not last long. Even Paradise might pall on
such a restless temperament as that of Richard Brinsley Sheridan. He
began to sigh for the outer world in which he felt that it was his
destiny to shine, for an arena in which he could do justice to the gifts
which were clamouring for scope and exercise. And thus, to Mrs
Sheridan's lasting regret, cottage and roses and simple delights of the
country were left behind, and she found herself installed in a Portman
Square house, in the heart of the world of fashion.
Here Sheridan, always the most improvident of men, launched out into
extravagances more suited to an income of £5000 a year than the paltry
£150 which was all he could command. He entertained on a lavish scale;
and his wit and charm, supplemented by his wife's beauty and gift of
song, soon surrounded them with a fashionable crowd eager to eat his
dinners and to attend his wife's _soirées_. Sheridan was in his element
in this environment of luxury and prodigality; but the Bath Nightingale
would gladly have changed it all for "a little quiet home that I can
enjoy in comfort," as she told her husband--above all, for the Burnham
cottage where she had been so idyllically happy.
Perhaps if Sheridan had never left the cottage and the roses, his name
would never have been known to fame. His ambition needed some such
stimulus as this spasm of extravagance to wake it to activity. He must
now make money or be submerged by debts; and under this impulse of
necessity it was that he wooed fortune with _The Rivals_, and awoke to
find himself famous and potentially rich. Other comedies followed
swiftly from his eager and inspired pen--_The School for Scandal_, _The
Duenna_, and _The Critic_--each greeted with enthusiasm by a world to
which such dramatic triumphs were a revelation and a delight. Sheridan
was not only the "talk of the town"; he was hailed universally as the
brightest dramatic star of the age.
It is needless to say that Sheridan's fame was a delight to his wife.
"Not long ago," she wrote to a friend, "he was known as
'Mrs Sheridan's husband.' Now the tables are turned, and,
henceforth, I expect I shall be just Mr Sheridan's wife.
Nor could I wish any more exalted title. I am proud and
thankful to be the wife of the cleverest man in England,
and the best husband in the world!"
That Mrs Sheridan adored her husband is evident from every letter she
wrote to him. She addresses him as "my dearest Love" and "my darling
Dick," and vows that she cannot be happy apart from him. "I cannot love
you," she declares, "and be perfectly satisfied at such a distance from
you. I depended upon your coming to-night, and shall not recover my
spirits till we meet." But through her letters runs the same hankering
after the old simple, peaceful days--the days of love in a cottage. "I
could draw," she writes, "such a picture of happiness that it would
almost make me wish the overthrow of all our present schemes of future
affluence and grandeur."
But greatly as he loved his wife, Sheridan was now too much wedded to
his ambition to listen to such tempting. He had conquered fame with his
pen; now he aspired to subdue it with his tongue. In 1780, while he was
still in the twenties, he was sent to Parliament by Stafford suffrages;
and from his first appearance at Westminster captivated his fellow
law-makers by the magic of his eloquence. A new star had arisen in the
oratorical firmament, and soon began to pale all other luminaries.
Within two years he was a Minister of the Crown; and in another year he
had electrified the world by the most brilliant oratory that had ever
been heard in our tongue--notably by his historic speech in the trial of
Warren Hastings, to the preparation of which his wife had devoted
herself body and soul.
Fresh from listening to this latest sensational triumph of her husband
in Westminster Hall, she wrote:--
"It is impossible to convey to you the delight, the
astonishment, the admiration he has excited in the
breasts of every class of people. Every party prejudice
has been overcome by this display of genius, eloquence
and goodness.... What my feelings must be, you can only
imagine. To tell you the truth, it is with some
difficulty that I can 'let down my mind,' as Mr Burke
said afterwards, to talk or think on any other subject.
But pleasure too exquisite becomes pain; and I am at this
moment suffering from the delightful anxieties of last
week."
But Mrs Sheridan's day of happiness and triumph was soon to draw near
to its close. She saw her husband climb to the dizziest pinnacle of
fame, and she watched with pain his brilliance dimmed, and his
marvellous intellect clouded by excessive drinking, before the fatal
seeds of consumption, which had already carried off her dearly-loved
sister, began to show themselves in her. Her illness was as swift as it
was, happily, painless. She simply drooped and faded and died, tenderly
watched over to the last by her husband with a silent anguish that was
pitiful to see.
"During her last days," says Mrs Canning, her devoted
friend, "she read sometimes to herself, and after dinner
sat down to the piano. She taught Betty (her little
niece) a little while, and played several slow movements
out of her own head, with her usual expression, but with
a very trembling hand. It was so like the last efforts of
an expiring genius, and brought such a train of tender
and melancholy ideas to my imagination, that I thought my
poor heart would have burst in the conflict."
And one June day, when the world she had loved so well was flooded with
a glory of sunlight, her beautiful spirit sped silently away to join the
"choir invisible." Nine days later she was laid to rest in Wells
Cathedral, thousands flocking to pay farewell homage to the closest link
the world has ever known "between an angel and a woman." As for Sheridan
he survived his grief twenty-four years, to end his days in poverty, and
to crown his life's drama with a stately funeral in Westminster Abbey.